


what's in my head when i'm below you

by vashtaneradas



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:35:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vashtaneradas/pseuds/vashtaneradas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>au; louis has writer's block and nick can read him like a book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what's in my head when i'm below you

It’s fucking freezing, but Louis is determined to stay out on the balcony until he’s finished his cigarette. 

He sighs, takes a drag and looks down absently as his legs dangle over the edge of the table he’s perched himself on. It’s late, Harry’s still not home from whichever job he’s working tonight and Louis is _bored._ Which is the problem, he supposes, he’s always so mind numbingly bored.

When he writes, it’s different. On the days he wakes up early and has a cup of tea, settles down at his laptop and just _writes,_ something grabbing his attention long enough for him to construct some sort of narrative behind it, his brain lights up like a switchboard. On days like that he can go for hours, breaking here and there for food or water or the occasional Hollyoaks replay, write and write until he’s just about dead with exhaustion. He barely notices people coming and going on days like that, doesn’t register the sun rising or setting, can’t see anything but the words in his head and the end goal; another paragraph, scene, chapter. Days like that, when he’s driven and lost in whatever’s playing out in his head, he’s never bored. Those are his favourite. 

It’s just that there hasn’t been a day like that for quite some time now, months; and he’s half apathetically sick of it and half absolutely fucking terrified that he’s never going to have a day like that again.

He was twenty-four when _Far Away_ was published. Twenty-four. Twenty-four year olds aren’t meant to bridge that frustrating gap between critical acclaim and bestseller. Twenty-four year olds aren’t meant to be published, full stop, aren’t meant to be anything but another aspiring writer set to be the eternal recipient of patronizing smiles and know-it-all eyes. But he was published, and he did bridge that gap, and he is now, two years later, someone whose next novel is awaited with anticipation. Which is precisely why it’s a little tricky.

He wrote _Far Away_ and was met with surprising and overwhelming and probably, in part, undeserving success. It was a nice novel with a charming little coming-of-age twist and was inexplicably both a runaway hit and well received by critics. He doesn’t know how to explain it; no one does – hundreds of those books are published per year and it just so happened to be his that caught people’s eye. He’s come to terms with that, had to, really, after he’d appeared on just about every talk show in the country. It was nice while it lasted and the letters from readers are sweet and the signings were better and he loves, it, really. It just makes moving on from that a little more challenging.

Because he’s got nothing to say, now. The book had been published and he’s done months of promo, at home and in Europe and here and there in America, and then come back to London and took a well deserved break. And now he’s been five months without an idea or any direction whatsoever, and has nothing to show for the last however-long-it’s-been apart from page after page of little meaningless nothings; scribbles.

He feels stuck, is the thing. He’s written about everything in his life to date. When he was a kid, back up north in high school, struggling to stay in the same tense through a whole paragraph, he’d written about Harry and his other friends. He’d written about his mother and his family and his cringe-inducing years of pitiful teenage heartbreak and sense of abandonment and whatever the hell else went on in his brain until he was eighteen. He finds those things occasionally, in an old file on his laptop, scrawled in the back of a misplaced writing pad, and they make him smile and roll his eyes and scrunch his face up in embarrassment all at once. When he’d moved to London, a little recklessly and off the cuff, he’d written about the city and his job and university and the first people he met here; Zayn and Aiden and Matt. And it’s vaguely better written than what he’s sardonically labeled the Northern Years, but it’s not anything he can use now, it’s nothing he feels now. When Harry had moved too, joined him in the throng of eight million they now call home and he’d befriended all those weird and wonderful people they now call their friends, he’d written about them too; quite extensively, actually, almost all of them are fascinating. 

And all of that had come together, in the end, all of those things had been tied up and reconciled and threaded into what became the book that against all the odds – and he means _all_ of them – is now somewhat a household name. 

But now he feels like he’s exhausted it all. That he’s gone through and scratched up every interesting person and place and relationship that he’s witnessed, poured them all into the same three-hundred odd pages, and now there’s nothing left.

Which, he comes back to in a delightfully if not entirely boring way, is half something to be apathetically sick of, and half fucking terrifying.

“Lou? You in?”

He hears the front door open and close quietly as Harry comes inside. Louis smiles a little at that; Harry Styles, there to draw him out of his own head at just the right time since they played in a sandbox and built lopsided snowmen together twenty-odd years ago.

“Yeah, out here,” he calls back, and turns as he hears the sliding door open, Harry slipping outside into the cool air. 

“It’s fucking freezing,” he notes, pulling his jumper down over his hands, “what’re you even doing out here?”

“Smoking,” Louis replies, scooting over to make space for Harry to sit down next to him.

“You don’t smoke." 

“I know. I’m trying it out. Makes me look moody and interesting, don’t you think?”

Harry quirks a smile at that, grabs the packet next to Louis and lights up. “You _are_ moody, though,” he says, nudging Louis in the stomach, “and very occasionally, you’re halfway interesting.”

Louis shoots him a look but there’s nothing behind it, he smiles and drops his head onto Harry’s shoulder. The apartment blocks that surround theirs look almost urbanely majestic at night, and Louis misses sitting out here in winter.

“Good day?” he asks absently, and Harry shrugs under the weight of Louis’ head.

“Eh. Not so bad. Café was quiet, got a gig at that pub near Piccadilly Circus for next weekend. Could’ve been worse.”

Louis smiles against him, sits himself back up and stamps his fag out. He hates smoking. It had seemed like a good idea two hours ago.

“Optimistic, then, Haz,” he says dryly, and Harry just smiles.

“How about you? Did you even leave the house?” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you, social worker Styles, I got out for my daily walk.” 

Harry just narrows his eyes, and Louis’ eyebrows shoot up in defence.

“What! I did! I went and saw Zayn at that weird store he works in, with the Japanese tea. Other than that my day was shit. Fucking wanktastic, actually.”

Harry grins wickedly around his cigarette. “Nice to see your prose hasn’t fallen by the wayside, then.”

If it were anyone else, Louis’d punch them square in the face and perhaps in the dick, should they have one, for that comment. Instead, he settles on kicking Harry in the leg, hard, and glaring through the dim light.

“Oi! Get fucked!” Harry squawks, wincing and rubbing at his shin. Louis sighs dramatically, flops down so he’s lying on the table. 

“Well that’s just the problem, isn’t it?” he starts, sounding ever the tortured artist, “no one’s fucking me. No one’s fucking me or kissing me or taking me to wonderful places or talking to me about awfully interesting things. I’m stuck with bloody Zayn and his tea room and _you_ , of all people.”

Harry flips him off easily and Louis laughs, tugging absently at Harry’s shirt, reaching to where Harry’s still sitting. 

“You reckon you need to get laid to start writing again?” Harry asks, genuinely curious. Louis feels a rush of affection for him in that moment; he’s been Louis’ most avid supporter since day one and he still is. Still worries his pretty little head when Louis gets into a mood, still brings him tea when he seems to be working, still makes sure Louis calls his family and his publicist even when he’s decided to spend a week watching game shows in bed.

“Maybe,” Louis says thoughtfully, “maybe you should shag me and we’ll see.”

They both laugh at that, grinning into the darkness as Harry relights his cigarette, wind blowing it out.

“Yeah, cos that worked so well when I was seventeen,” he says, deadpan. Louis winces at that. It was an unfortunate incidence in both of their lives, the day before Louis left for London and they got a little drunk and a little emotional, and he doesn’t like to remember it. “Besides, not sure it’d go down too well with Niall.”

“Niall can join in, if he likes,” Louis says, “you know, it’s weird, I can never imagine you two, y’know, going at it. I always have it in my head that you just live in a small kennel and paw at each other’s faces and giggle a lot, or something.”

Harry snorts. “Firstly, we _go at it_ just fine, thank you very much. Secondly, bit weird that you try and imagine it, Lou.”

“Shut up. Maybe I’ll get Zayn to shag me.”

Harry just shakes his head despairingly, puts his fag in the ashtray and lies down next to Louis with a tired little groan. “Not sure that’d go too well with his aim of bedding three million girls this year.”

Louis shrugs, concedes. “Well I need to find someone, regardless of writing benefits or not,” he declares, “because it’s been way too long and I resent you all for your satisfying sex lives.”

“We should have a party.”

Louis furrows his brow.

“What?” 

“I mean it, Lou, we should have a party,” Harry says, “we haven’t had a party in ages. We throw the best parties.” 

“Stop saying party.”

“Party, party, party, party, _party_ ,” Harry says pointedly, sitting back up and looking down at Louis beseechingly, “c’mon, let’s have a party. Let’s have one Saturday night; everyone’d come.” 

“Who’s _everyone_?” 

Harry sighs. “You know, everyone. Aimee and Greg and Alexa and Eliot, that lot. Liam’d come, his girlfriend would come—“

“—Are they still together?

Harry pauses. “Oh. Maybe not. I think I saw them out together a few weekends ago?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, “I thought he took that other girl home on Tuesday, though. 

“Hmm,” Harry says, “anyway. I’d make Niall come, and Zayn’d come for Niall—“

“—Zayn’d come for _me_ ,” Louis clarifies. Harry smirks at his phrasing, and Louis rolls his eyes and kicks him again for good measure. 

“Yeah, whatever Lou. Let’s have a party.”

Louis looks at him for a long moment. A party could be fun. He likes their friends, he likes drinking, he likes not having to leave the house. At the very least, it’ll be neutral. It won’t make him feel abjectly _worse_.

“Yeah, okay Haz, let’s have a party.”

Harry grins and cooks him dinner.

**

They have a party.

By eleven on Saturday night, Louis has an apartment full of friends and total strangers, a bloodstream full of alcohol and a mouthful of tequila.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he winces, face contorting as he swallows. He gets a general cheer from the five or six people he’s drinking with, and he smiles lazily, enjoys the haze of it.

“I’ll be back,” he says loudly, passing the bottle off to a very tall, catlike woman he doesn’t know, and he stands unsteadily, stretches and walks through the place slowly.

It’s packed out by now; the flat isn’t that big and they know a lot of people from a lot of corners of this city, have created quite the little group in Louis’ seven years in London and Harry’s five. Harry and Niall are sat on the couch, giggling drunkenly and pressing kisses to each other’s cheeks and nose and lips before making each other do shots, Zayn’s outside smoking five minutes out of every ten, eyes smouldering more than his cigarette, and Liam’s locked in an intense conversation with his girlfriend, probably trying to put off another break up.

Louis shakes his head dizzily, smiles a little and pushes his way through the crowd to get to the kitchen before promptly smacking headfirst into someone’s chest.

“Shit!” they say in unison and Louis takes a step back, blinks up at the guy looking back at him. He reminds Louis of an insect or something – albeit a really, really gorgeous one – all long legs and collarbones and tight jeans. He’s also sporting the most ridiculous looking quiff Louis’ ever seen.

“Your hair’s dumb,” he says blankly. The guy lets out a bark of laughter, raises his eyebrows.

“Oh yeah? And who the fuck are you?” he asks, yelling over the music. Louis suddenly feels small, or something, in front of him, feels little and sort of dumb and inadequate. He runs a hand through his hair, puffs his chest out a little.

“’M’Louis,” he says, “I live here.” 

The guy’s face lights up in recognition. “Oh! Harry’s flatmate?” 

“Yeah. Who the fuck are—“

“ _Grimmy!_ ” Before Louis can finish, Harry bounds over to them, crashes into them both with a grin. “You made it, mate!”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Styles, how are you?" 

“’M’good,” Harry says happily, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek, “really good. Ooh, fuck,” he says absently as he nearly falls into the wall. Louis always vaguely wonders how those awfully thin legs keep Harry standing, and judging by the expression on this guy’s face he’s thinking much the same, catching Harry with the hand not occupied with a drink.

“I’m okay,” Harry says loudly, flailing his hands a little, “I’m okay! No, but Lou, this is Grimmy, we work together at the bar.”

“Grimmy?” Louis asks skeptically.

“Nick,” the guy says, rolling his eyes at Harry as he ogles a girl dancing on their dining table.

“Oh,” Louis says, “okay. Hi.” Nick’s really tall. Louis’ is kind of into that, likes the way Nick’s raking his eyes over him.

Harry rolls his eyes. “You two are so weird,” he slurs, pinching Louis’ cheek absently, “you’re, like, the same. _You’re twins_ ,” he stage whispers conspiratorially, and Louis just raises his eyes amusedly in Nick’s direction. 

“Okay, love, why don’t you go outside and take a sec, yeah?” Nick says, smirking, “and maybe give me that drink, while you’re at it.” 

Harry drops his jaw in mock horror, cradles his drink to his chest. “You’re a killjoy, Nicholas Grimshaw,” he yells, “don’t come near me!”

And with that he stumbles away, sort of head butts his way into Niall’s arms back on the couch and Louis hears him giggle as he polishes off his drink and lays down on Niall’s lap, nuzzles his face rather unabashedly into his crotch.

“Well,” Nick says, watching on in mild amusement, “Quite a show. I don’t think I’m nearly drunk enough to be running with you lot.”

“Don’t think so, no,” Louis muses, “want a drink?”

Nick peers over into Louis glass, raises his eyes a little. “Anything better than a vodka and coke?” he asks. 

Louis just looks at him in mild disgust. “You’re kind of a prick,” he says. He’s trying to get a reaction but frustratingly Nick doesn’t give it, just smiles like he knows something Louis doesn’t.

“Very true,” he says, “nice pick up.” 

They stand in a weird silence for a few moments, almost as if sizing each other up. Finally, Louis rolls his eyes and grabs for the nearest vodka bottle.

“I’m too drunk to be clever, so can you please just take a drink and enjoy yourself,” he half slurs, and Nick laughs, a little oddly. 

“I actually have go find a friend,” he says, “but I’ll see you round Louis. Nice to meet you.”

“You just got here!” 

“Places to go, people to see, Tomlinson,” he says airily, and with that he melts back through the crowd.

Louis spends the rest of the night wondering where the hell he went and how exactly he knew his last name. 

**

When he wakes up at half eleven the next morning, there are three other people in his bed that he seriously hopes he didn’t sleep with, because one is Zayn and the other two are girls, and he’s not slept with either of those two groups of people since he was eighteen. 

“Wake up, Malik,” he croaks, kicking Zayn until he rolls over, “get out right now or I’ll throw up on you." 

For a person who’s slept about three hours and no doubt has the mother of all hangovers, Zayn springs up with surprising agility.

“Don’t you dare,” he rasps, and before he can continue his eyes fall to the bed, widen in shock. “Who are they?” he whispers, pointing at the girls, “did I—“ 

“Well I sure as hell didn’t,” Louis says, smirking at the look on Zayn’s face, “no, you idiot, I’m pretty sure we all crashed where we fell last night.”

“You sure?” 

Louis runs a hand over his face as they half walk, half stagger out to the kitchen together. “Yeah, mate, I’m not sure any amount of alcohol would make me let you have a threesome in my bed. Y’know, without me involved in it.”

Zayn seems to consider this for an inordinate amount of time. “Fair point,” he says.

They round the corner to the kitchen to see Liam standing in there already, head collapsed onto his hands on the bench.

“Li?” Zayn ventures, “you right, mate?”

“No,” Liam says, his voice sounding about as good as he looks, “the kettle. It’s so fucking loud.”

Louis grins, taps him on the arse as he reaches up for a few mugs. “Rough night, babe?”

“The roughest,” Liam says, “she’s fucking mental.”

“Then find someone else to date,” Zayn says with a roll of his eyes. They must have this conversation once a week. 

“But she’s the best,” Liam replies, and Louis and Zayn just shoot each other a look and shrug, because honestly, they’ve not made any headway in this discussion for two years and they don’t suppose that a breakthrough’s going to come mid-morning on a hungover Sunday.

“Where are Haz and Niall anyway?” Louis asks suddenly, peering down the hall to Harry’s closed bedroom door. He smiles a little obnoxiously, scoots past Liam who’s by now just staring vacantly at the kettle, traipses the few feet down the hall till he’s outside Harry’s door. He trips over a girl asleep against the wall in the hallway, just about breaks his neck. His life is more dangerous than he gives it credit for. 

“Oi!” he yells, banging his fist against the door a few times, “rise and shine, boys, clean up’s about to commence!" 

He hears a few sleepy groans from the other side and assumes it’s enough to get them up, and judging by the general rustle that comes from all ends of the flat, a few other people too. Fearne and Greg sit up blearily on the couch and go about getting themselves together, Aimee and Ellie blink a little dubiously, having apparently slept on the carpet all night, and a bunch of other people Louis either doesn’t know or doesn’t recognise emerge from the spare room.

Harry and Niall come out of Harry’s room a couple of minutes later, Harry’s brow furrowed and tired as Niall leads him out. They look like a couple of kittens who’ve been curled up together in a cardboard box all night.

“Oh, _Haz,”_ Louis says with a gleeful smile, pinching him on the cheek, “did I wake you up, babe?”

Harry glowers at him, hooks his chin over Niall’s shoulder and nuzzles into him like a sleepy little panda. 

“Fuck off,” he croaks, “I don’t think I even fell properly asleep before you bashed my fucking door in.”

Louis smiles at him, slaps a kiss on both their cheeks and flicks the kettle on again; he guesses they’ll be needing it this morning. He sets about making another pot of tea, handing out mugs faster than he can pull them down from the top shelf. Harry comes over a few minutes later, pulling a clean shirt over his head and smiling at Louis, a little more awake this time round. 

“So,” he says, hopping up on the counter and smiling like he has a secret, “so. Last night.” 

“Last night indeed,” Louis says, raising his eyebrows, “you seemed to be having fun.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, waving him off, “ _you_ seemed to have more, though.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” 

Harry just rolls his eyes, reaches up to the top shelf to take down the box of bloody _Irish_ Breakfast tea they have, just for Niall. Louis has a personal vendetta against Irish Breakfast, and if it was for anyone outside of his four boys, he wouldn’t allow it in his house. 

“It _means_ ,” Harry says, poking him in the ribs, “you and Grimmy hit it off. Which I called, by the way.”

Louis snorts. “First of all, doesn’t count as a call if you don’t actually tell anyone,” he says, “secondly, we talked for all of five minutes. I’m not sure that counts as _hitting it off_.”

“Well not for normal people,” Harry says, “but mate, he doesn’t talk to _anyone_ for that long. He thinks people get too boring too quickly. So you definitely hit it off.” 

“Attractive quality in a person,” Louis says idly, but he can’t quite shake his curiosity, “no, but really. What’s his deal?”

Harry smirks, like he can smell the vague interest on Louis, but Louis ignores it. “We work at the bar together on weekends. He’s great. He’s clever and funny and he’s, like, strangely the same as you, actually. ‘S’weird.”

“You mentioned that last night.” 

“Anyway,” Harry says, “he’s just kinda…” he rolls his eyes at his own theatrics, “like, mysterious, a bit? He has, like, three million friends and he sort of goes between ten different things and groups and people a night.” Harry shrugs. “He’s a great guy, though. You’d like him.”

Louis raises his eyebrows dubiously. “Got a little crush, have we Haz?” 

“Who’s got a crush?” Niall pops his head into their conversation at that moment, and Harry smiles like a goddamned four-year old with an ice cream cone, drags him closer so he stands between Harry’s knees, where he’s still sitting up on the bench.

“No one, you idiot,” he grins, pressing a kiss to Niall’s lips, “you want tea? I have that appalling stuff you like.”

“Yeah,” Niall says, voice a little husky and Louis doesn’t even _want_ to know. He leans up and kisses Harry’s jaw, and Harry giggles, plays with his hair idly. 

“ _Ew_ ,” Louis says emphatically, but they don’t even hear him over whatever it is Niall’s murmuring in Harry’s ear. From the way Harry bites his lip and hooks his ankles round Niall, it’s something Louis does not under any circumstance want to hear.

“I’m out,” he says loudly, throwing his mug in the sink, “Zayn, Li, you want a lift home? Anyone? Or I can just drive myself off a cliff of loneliness instead,” he half shouts at Harry and Niall. They still don’t hear him. Bastards.

“Shotgun,” Zayn says with a grin, and Louis watches in mild despair as he and Liam all but wrestle each other down to the car park. 

He doesn’t quite shake Harry’s words from earlier the whole time, though, and for the first time in a while, feels a flash of interest.

******

Louis has a shitty, unproductive and lonely five days, but in the midst of it all can’t quite shake his curiosity in that very tall owner of a great pair of legs that walked into his flat on Saturday. So crap week aside, Louis is a good friend and agrees to go to Harry’s pub gig on Friday night. Harry’s almost continuous bouncing off the walls in excitement is the main reason he goes; there is a small part of him, however, that agrees solely because Harry said Nick would probably be there. He doesn’t focus on that part too much.

Harry’s wonderful, as ever. For Zayn and Liam, who back him up on guitar and drums respectively, this is just a bit of fun, but Louis knows that despite his noncommittal shrugs this is exactly what Harry wants. He sings beautifully, and he has about five people including Niall and his friend from the café (the café or the Urban Outfitters he used to work at, Louis can’t quite remember), Ed, teaching him guitar. They all do it free of charge, of course; Louis’ pretty sure Harry hasn’t stopped getting freebies since he was that little five-year old with the most pinchable cheeks in Yorkshire.

Harry comes off stage sweaty and bright and smiling like he’s just packed out the O2, drink in hand as Louis walks over to him with a smile.

“Haz, _babe_ ,” he says, “you’ve gotten better since I last saw you." 

“I know, right,” Harry says, pulling him in for a hug, “I’m so happy. It went so good, people liked it, I think.”

Louis can’t help but smile at that, his wonderful childish enthusiasm for everything and anything. 

“’Course they liked it,” Louis says, running a hand through his hair affectionately, “hey, do I know anyone else here?” he asks, going for casual. It doesn’t seem to matter though; Harry’s too buzzed on his performance to care what Louis may or may not so subtly be asking.

“Oh. Maybe? Nick’s up on the rooftop, I think,” Harry says breathlessly, “I gotta go try and get paid. But I’ll see you later, yeah?” 

Louis nods and pulls him in for another hug. “Great show, mate, really,” he says, and Harry grins at him.

“Thanks!” he shouts over the next band starting up, and with that he’s gone.

Louis goes to the roof. He buys a packet of cigarettes, because he doesn’t want to look like he’s going there just to gaze all moon-eyed at Nick, and takes the stairs to the door up top, stepping out into the cool air. 

Nick whips around at the creaking of the door, and upon seeing Louis the alarm in his face dies down and is replaced with something resembling happiness. 

“Well hello, hello,” he says with a small smile, nodding Louis over, “look what the cat dragged in.”

Louis snorts, shakes his head as he goes to stand next to Nick, who’s looking out over the inner city as he smokes.

“Charming,” he says, “you got a light?" 

Nick nods, reaches into his pocket and hands the lighter to Louis. And it’s funny, Louis thinks, because he’s awfully good at reading people, little things about them that make them like an open book to Louis. With Nick, he picks it straight away – Nick’s more liable to talk and perhaps drop his guard if he’s occupied; doing something with himself whether it’s smoking or cradling a drink, Louis imagines he’d be the same with a coffee or a newspaper or a book. If he has an action to fall back on, Louis thinks he might be easier to talk to. He kind of likes that.

He passes Nick’s lighter back, has a look at it in the dim light. It’s got a faded Union Jack emblazoned on it, metal kind of rusted.

“Is everything about you dreadfully hipster chic?” he asks with a wry smile, and Nick raises an eyebrow derisively, nudges him with his hip.

“Says you,” he shoots back, “Louis Tomlinson, top of the _I’m-a-kid-barely-graduated-who-wrote-a-novel-about-growing-up-in-a-small-town-and-feeling-horribly-alone_ bestseller list for about seven years straight.” 

Louis stiffens at that, drops his head slightly. He didn’t know Nick knew what he did. He’s not sure he likes it; it seems like something Nick can take advantage of. But he doesn’t, seems to sense Louis’ apprehension and laughs a little, nudges him again.

“I’m only joking. I read it, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“Your book. _Far Away,_ have you heard of it?”

Louis can’t help but smile, a little uneasy. He doesn’t like people talking about his work to his face. Never knows how to react, doesn’t know what he’s meant to say, still, two years on.

“I didn’t want to, at first,” Nick continues, making up for Louis’ wariness, “thought it might be all _Perks of Being a Fuckwit,_ or whatever it’s called, y’know.”

Louis laughs at that, out of surprise more than anything. “I’d probably read that,” he says, “might call my autobiography that. _Louis Tomlinson – The Perks of Being a Fuckwit."_  

“Copyrighted it, mate,” Nick says with a grin, “no, but seriously. I liked it. You’re not half bad, you know that?” he says. 

“High praise,” Louis says around his cigarette.

“I’m not much of a gusher,” Nick admits, “so yeah, kinda is.”

And there’s something about that that really resonates with Louis, for whatever reason. He hates it when people pile on every positive adjective they can think of to describe the book; he appreciates praise like Nick’s so much more. A measured little _I liked it_ , or _it was interesting, the way you did this._ And Louis doesn’t know if it’s that, or the cocktail he was drinking before, or the way the room vibrates a little underneath the noise of the band inside, but he kind of wants to kiss Nick right now.

So he does.

He pushes up onto his toes a little, left hand dangling over the balcony as his cigarette keeps burning, right pulling Nick in by the waist. He kisses him softly, rocks up further on his toes and thrusts his jaw up, kissing him till he kisses back. Their lips slot together easily, and Nick works his mouth open with Louis sucking on his bottom lip, nipping lightly as their tongues find each other. It’s a good kiss. Louis’ breath hitches a little as Nick’s stubble grazes against his cheek, and he wants to keep doing this all night.

Nick has other ideas; apparently, pulls away after a few seconds. They stare at each other for a long moment, and Nick runs the back of his fingers over Louis’ cheek quickly. 

“You’re sweet,” he breathes an inch from Louis, and Louis is kind of taken aback because _sweet_ is not a word used to describe him too often, “I have to go. But I’ll see you.”

And _yeah_ , Louis thinks as Nick pulls his coat collar up and walks back through the door, down to the bar and no doubt out the door, _yeah, you will._

******

In fact, he sees him the next night.

Nick is fucking _mental_. His pupils are blown as soon as Louis sees him and Nick smiles, ambles across the room and collects him in a hug.

“Hiya, Tomlinson,” he says in his ear, laughing low and husky, “nice of you to show.” 

Louis has no idea where he is, if he’s honest, Harry had dragged him here. All he knows is that he’s got a drink in his hand and a hand on his back and he’s not averse to either of those things. 

“Hello yourself,” he says, can’t help but smile at the happy drunkenness plastered all over Nick’s face, “you seem to be having fun.”

“Oh, I am,” Nick assures, “better that you’re here though.” 

Louis just smiles, takes it with a grain of salt and downs the rest of his drink.

He downs quite a few, actually, and within an hour he thinks he’s possibly giving Nick a run for his money. Harry’s fucked off to God knows where in this awfully big house and Louis doesn’t know many people, so he stays with Nick. Not that he seems to have a choice though, because Nick’s pretty intent on keeping him around. He gets Louis drunk and then proceeds to wreak general havoc, fucks with the music and doubles the alcohol content of the punch and Louis finds himself joining in more often than not; laughing into Nick’s shoulder and hooking a finger through his belt loop when he gets sleepy; scouting a couple in the midst of an intimate moment for Nick to interrupt when he perks up.

And it’s funny, but it isn’t like all the other nights where he goes out and is always _looking_ for something, looking for something to catch his eye or attract his attention; looking for something to make him enjoy himself. He just…does. He has fun without thinking about it, let’s himself gets lost in a party, a night, (but really, a person), for the first time in so, so long. And he fucking loves it. 

Harry reappears about an hour later, arm slung around Zayn. They smell like weed, and Louis is outraged that he didn’t score an invite.

“We couldn’t find you!” Zayn explains lamely, in Louis’ opinion, “next time. Promise.”

“Not good enough,” he says with a shake of his head, “how are you gonna repay me?”

“Aww,” Harry coos, pinching at Louis’ cheek in the way he knows he _hates,_ “you all sad Lou?” 

Zayn cocks his head with a grin, presses a kiss to both of Louis’ cheeks and his mouth. He tries to bat him off, to no avail, and soon finds himself quite ridiculously off the ground, held up by the both of them. 

“Fuck off,” he slurs with a laugh and a shriek, kicking out at them, “don’t you have people to go sleep with? Fuck _off._ ”

“You heard the boy.”

Harry spins around in shock at Nick’s voice, all but drops Louis’ legs to the ground. Thank God for Zayn, Louis thinks primly, who steadies him on the fucking floor _before_ letting go. 

“ _Grim!”_ Harry shouts, “Grim Grim Grim.”

“He’s quite repetitive when he’s drunk, isn’t he?” Nick asks Louis, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Louis’ blood turn hot. He looks just a little bit mad.

“Harry Styles!” A cry goes up from the other end of the room, “you two gonna come finish this stuff off, or what?”

Harry and Zayn plaster Louis in cuddles and lazy kisses by way of apology before slinking off to whoever’s calling them, tell Louis to come and find them after.

Louis goes to say goodbye, but is cut off by Nick’s voice in his ear. 

“Your boys touch you an awful lot, don’t they?” he asks, all rough and hot, and Louis has to stop himself from just turning around and pressing up into him. He closes his eyes for a moment, than turns to face him.

“Yeah,” he says into Nick’s neck, somehow ending up in his embrace, “why? Turn you on, Nicholas?” he asks with a grin.

Nick pulls back at that, looks at him for a long moment before taking his chin roughly in his hand and pulling him closer. 

“No,” he says, “kinda pisses me off, though,” he says, and well, people stronger than Louis would have trouble resisting the drunken come-ons of Nick Grimshaw.

He laughs a little at that, and isn’t totally surprised when he’s cut off by Nick’s lips on his, kissing him roughly, strong hands cupping his jaw and running down his side.

He loses his breath for a moment, too caught up in the scratch of Nick’s skin and the heat of his lips, the way he’s already pushing his tongue into Louis’ mouth, messy and desperate. Louis kisses him back just the same, rushes his hands through Nick’s hair and settle on his neck. 

“Wanna find a room?” Nick pants after a while, breaking off and resting his forehead against Louis’. His hair is a mess, lips red and swollen, and Louis would like absolutely nothing more.

He takes Nick by the hand and leads him down the hall to a room he vaguely remembers seeing a bed in; they both stumble around corners and into people but they do make it in the end, Nick slamming the door shut almost as soon as they’re inside and tugging Louis’ jacket off.

“Jesus, so many _layers_ ,” he groans, and Louis just grins, lets Nick fumble with the buttons on his shirt and pull it off him, tug at his jeans till he’s standing in nothing but his pants. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Nick says, “you’re, like, really gorgeous.”

Louis just rolls his eyes and ignores the inebriated compliment, throws his arms round Nick’s neck and kisses him again, harder, bare chests pressed together. Nick’s hands are on his arse and when he thrusts a thigh up between Louis’ legs, Louis can’t help but stutter out a groan, tip his head back a little and rock up into it.

Nick doesn’t say anything, just walks them over to the bed until Louis’ knees knock it and he falls (rather gracefully, he may add) on his back, bouncing a little on the mattress. Nick’s just _looking_ at him, eyes raking over his legs and his crotch and his chest, his face. 

“You gonna stand there all night, Nick, or join me here?” he asks roughly, and Nick doesn’t need to be told twice. Louis wriggles back up the bed so he’s lying properly, and pulls Nick along with him by the chains around his neck until Nick’s above him, kissing him and rocking his thigh against Louis’ dick.

“Nick,” Louis groans, tugging at his hair again. He can feel the sweat on his back, the heating in this place is up about a thousand degrees and he’s so fucking _hot_ in here, flush coming through his maybe-not-completely-real tan.

“What?” he asks, latching into Louis’ neck and sucking a bruise there breathlessly, “what do you want?”

“Want you,” Louis stutters out, eyes rolling back in his head as Nick slips a hand into his boxers, “ _Jesus_ , want you to fuck me.” 

Nick hums a laugh into his collarbone that reverberates right through Louis; he grips a little tighter at Nick’s hair as Nick shucks both their briefs, before sitting up on his knees and fossicking around in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a condom and a packet of lube. 

He notices Louis watching him, pushes up on his elbows and Nick just grins.

“Always be prepared,” he says, and Louis snorts.

“What are you, a fucking boy scout?” he asks. 

Nick shakes his head, clambers back over him and presses a messy kiss to his lips.

“Shut up,” he growls, and well, Louis isn’t going to argue. He lies back against the bed, hears Nick tear the packet open with his teeth and a few seconds later feels it, Nick’s finger pushing into him slowly. He’s achingly tight, arches right off the bed at just one finger, which seems to take Nick by surprise.

“Been a while, then?” he asks with a smirk, nipping at Louis’ earlobe and across his jaw. Louis can’t even respond as Nick gives a few rough tugs of his cock and adds another finger at the same time, he whines and latches a hand onto the back of Nick’s neck, kisses him desperately.

“More, yeah?” he breathes into Nick’s mouth, legs laid open, “c’mon, please.”

Nick just looks at him, all dark eyes and gorgeous mouth and Louis thinks it’s a miracle he’s even forming words, because he’s so turned on right now and Nick’s fucking _right there_ and yeah, so sue him, maybe it has been a while. 

Nick doesn’t answer, just adds another finger and curls them so they fill Louis up; hit him just right so he very nearly forgets to keep breathing. He rocks himself back on Nick’s fingers, kisses becoming more just heavy breaths as he groans on every thrust, until Nick can’t seen to take it anymore.

“You ready, babe?” he asks, “because, like, I could watch this all night, but I’d really rather—“ 

“God, shut up, yes, I’m ready, _Christ_ ,” Louis says, and Nick doesn’t need another prompt. Louis whimpers as Nick pulls out, doesn’t even open his eyes until Nick’s hooking Louis’ legs round his waist and bracing his hands on Louis’ hips; pushing in shallowly with an almost primal grunt.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, fingers digging into Louis’ side, rocking his hips slowly. Louis winces, stutters out a groan and grabs at the sheets.

“You right?” Nick asks, and Louis just nods, breathes a _yeah, more_ and feels the wave of heat rush through him as Nick pushes all the way in, scratching his nails down Louis’ side as he does so.

Nick’s really, really good at this, and Louis doesn’t even have time to think about anything as Nick’s hips slam against him, building up to a rhythm that makes Louis feel so good he thinks he really might die.

“God,” he says, watching with hooded eyes as Nick’s dark eyelashes fan out over his cheekbones, “Jesus _Christ_ , Nick.”

Nick all but fucking _smirks_ at that, licks his lips and drives into Louis faster, panting until Louis lets out a high little whine. 

“C’mon,” he says roughly, leaning down over Louis and wrapping a hand around his dick. He grazes his teeth over Louis’ jaw, his collarbones, breath hot on Louis’ skin. 

“Oh my God,” Louis says, and as Nick gives one final tug Louis’ done, spills over into Nick’s hand, tugging on his hair and nails digging into his back with a low moan.

It’s almost as though now he has the title of _not coming first,_ Nick lets himself go too, and Louis feels his teeth sink into his clavicle as he slumps against him, falling on Louis with a shudder and a groan after a few seconds. 

“Off,” Louis grunts roughly, pushing Nick’s head off his chest. Nick sits up a little blearily, and Louis really, really doesn’t want him to pull out just yet so kisses him quickly, lazily, feeling more content than he has in a long time.

“So this was fun,” Nick says with a grin, and it’s the last thing Louis remembers from that night.

******

Louis doesn’t mean for it to become a pattern. It’s just over the next two months, it does.

He spends his weeks much the same way, but somehow himself doing _more._ He calls home without Harry prompting him. His sister comes up to London over school break and they hang out and he _loves_ it. He cleans the flat and goes for a run (only one albeit, because his legs hurt for a week afterwards, but still), and he writes. Not much and maybe nothing he’ll ever use, but he writes nonetheless. And it’s an hour a day, tops, but it feels so incredibly good.

And then on the weekend, he goes out, invariably finds Nick, and gets fucked into oblivion in a spare room or a broom closet or, on one occasion, in a laundry, on a top loader doing a load of whites. He doesn’t think too much into it.

It’s funny, but the days Nick drops him a text or a stupid photo, even the days that Harry just brings him up or tells a good story about something he did at work, are the ones Louis is most productive in, the ones his head feels most clear.

And, as nice as it is, it scares the shit out of him. Because it’s how he felt about Aiden when he was seventeen-odd years old, Greg when he moved to London. And these things not only have a history of ending badly for Louis, but they have a history of ending before they even begin. And he doesn’t want that this time; not at all. 

So he keeps his distance. He doesn’t bug him or ask him to come over except if they’re having a thing with their friends, he doesn’t text incessantly, he doesn’t ask Harry too many questions.

Harry can smell it on him a mile off, regardless, of course. 

“What’re you smiling at?” Harry asks, all but leaping onto the couch next to Louis. “I don’t trust you when you smile.”

“Sod off,” Louis mutters, trying to close the text before Harry sees. Unfortunately, Harry fucking Styles has quite a set of reflexes when he needs them, and grabs his phone at lightning speed.

“Give it _back_ ,” Louis howls, tickling him in a desperate attempt to fluster him. It doesn’t work as well as it did when they were twelve. Harry laughs delightedly, stands up and runs to the other side of the room, eyes wide as he reads.

“ _Hey so there’s a thing happening a couple of blocks from mine this weekend,”_ Harry reads in his best Nick impression, absolutely shocking as ever, “ _I was thinking we should go one up from the washing machine and do it in the kitchen. Think you can manage?”_

Harry looks over at him, appalled.

“Oh my God,” he says, “you two are fucking _depraved._ ”

“You’re just jealous,” Louis says haughtily, “you’re jealous because you’ve got an awfully vanilla sex life and—“

Harry snorts. “Did you really just say _vanilla_?” he asks, reveling in Louis’ furious glare, “oh my God. You’ve got fucking boy brain, mate.” 

“I do _not_.” Boy brain was what a teacher at their school used to call it when all the girls were too busy trying impress the guys in their Lit class rather than, like, learn Lit.  It’s a joke that’s kind of stuck between the two of them, however right now, Louis wishes it hadn’t.

“Louis’ got _boy brain_ ,” Harry sings gleefully, throwing Louis his phone back, “Louis Tomlinson’s got _boy brain_ at age _twenty-six._ ”

“I don’t,” he all but shouts, “oh my God. We…we have sex, _occasionally_ , Harry, God,” he says, rolling his eyes at the outraged look on Harry’s face, “like you didn’t know anyway.” 

Harry shrugs at that. “Fair enough." 

“We shag occasionally and that’s it. There is no boy brain involved.”

Harry smiles infuriatingly smugly. “You’ve been happier lately,” is all he says, darting off to the kitchen before Louis can argue.

And, well. Louis is trying very hard not to think about that for the whole rest of the week.

He and Harry throw another party towards the end of May, something they originally wanted to have ‘80s themed but at everyone’s request made just a general piss up instead. And it’s been fun. This part though, inevitably Louis’ favourite part of all nights of this ilk, is better.

“Louis,” Nick pants, “God.” He groans right in the back of his throat as Louis sucks him deeper, tugs hard on the fistful of Louis’ hair he’s got in his grip, “Jesus _Christ_ , Louis.”

Louis’ eyes flutter with pleasure at that, at Nick rocking his hips up shallowly into his mouth, at the muted sound of the party winding down outside, at the tequila and precome he can taste on his tongue. He whines a little as Nick hits the back of his throat, swallowing around him until his breath evens out again.

He pulls off with an obscene _pop_ , swirling his tongue over the head once more, Nick’s hips giving another jolt. He sits there, mouth open with Nick’s cock sitting on his tongue, and blinks up at him, wide and doe-eyed. Nick stares back for a few seconds, all but drooling at the sight of Louis in front of him. Louis can feel his dick throbbing on his tongue, smiles a little and keeps right on blinking at him.

“Tomlinson,” Nick says again, trying to be authoritative but looking like he’s about to burst into tears, “keep going, _God_.”

Louis hums a laugh around his dick but does what he says, closes his eyes and takes Nick down again. Nick’s fingers press bluntly into his scalp and it only takes one, two, three flicks of Louis’ tongue until Nick’s coming, Louis swallowing around him the whole time.

Sucking cock is maybe the only thing Louis’ better at than writing. 

“Tell you what, they can say whatever they want about you, but you’re really fucking good at that,” Nick says after a moment, panting. He stands up after a minute or so, tugs his jeans on as Louis takes his place on the bed. “I gotta get going though.”

“At half three in the morning?” Louis asks, rolling his eyes. He’s tired. Nick’s not bad at giving head, either, and Louis’ warm and sated from fooling around all night and just wants to curl up and sleep. “c’mon, stay. Everyone else is. It’s fine, really.”

Nick looks at him for a long moment, eyes impossibly soft, before he shakes his head slightly. He pulls his t-shirt back on and runs a hand through his ruined hair, clears his throat. 

“No, no I won’t stay. Thanks for the offer, though,” he says. He stares at Louis for another long moment. Louis feels warm and sleepy and cuddly, wants to nuzzle into Nick’s chest and have him kiss him to sleep. He wants Nick to roll his eyes and take all his clothes off again and come back to bed. 

“Bye, Lou,” Nick says instead, softly, sensing the heaviness in Louis’ eyes, “great party.”

He slips out Louis’ bedroom door without another word. He doesn’t kiss Louis goodbye, then again, Louis doesn’t expect it. He never does.

“Bye,” he whispers, but Nick’s long gone.

**

Louis expects that it’s a dream when, at eleven o’clock the next morning, he’s awoken by his phone ringing. 

It’s _Nick_. Nick rarely ever calls him, except when drunk or bored at work. 

“Hello?” Louis says croakily, “swear to God, Nick, if this is a pocket dial I’m never sucking you off again.”

He can almost hear the smirk on the other end of the time.

“Nice voice,” Nick says airily, “no, not a pocket dial. How are you?”

“Hungover,” Louis says, silently wishing his voice would stop cracking and rasping because he can quite literally _hear Nick laughing_ , “shut _up,_ please, you’re so loud.”

“Touchy.”

“Why aren’t you ever hungover?” Louis asks, “why don’t you ever feel awful or look like shit or—“

“D’you wanna grab coffee?” 

Louis stops talking, out of shock more than anything, lets the silence sit between them.

“I…what?”

“You know. Coffee. D’you wanna, like, get some,” Nick says, and it’s adorably flustered, “you know. Coffee. Now.”

Louis, despite his best efforts, finds himself smiling like an idiot.

“Sure,” he says finally, “yeah. I’d like that a lot. Time and a place, Nick, I’ll be there.”

He is there, an hour later, at a place just a few blocks from the flat. If he’s not mistaken, Nick’s being considerate. He tries not to think too much about it, it’s a phenomenon best left to a higher power, like gravity or car spaces near lifts at shopping centres. 

When Louis walks in, Nick’s already at a table, swishing his hair to the other side in the reflection of the coffee machine. Louis grins as he pulls a chair out, startling Nick half to death.

“Snap you out of your Narcissus complex, then?” he asks with a smile, and Nick doesn’t retaliate, just laughs.

“You’re looking sprightly for someone with half a litre of battery acid in their bloodstream,” Nick says, “I ordered for you. I assumed a big breakfast was in order.”

Louis groans gratefully, and he sees the smile that spreads across Nick’s face, he can’t help but return it. He’s wonderful. And all of a sudden Louis kind of wants to burst, because, _oh_ , he maybe quite likes Nick Grimshaw and for the first time, that’s not entirely frightening. It’s kind of nice, sits with him comfortably. Maybe it’s something to do with the fact they’re doing this, getting coffee and laughing like normal people instead of shagging in random house number three thousand and ninety four.  Maybe it’s because Nick looks just the tiniest bit proud that he get Louis’ order right. Whatever it is, Louis likes it. A lot. 

So gingerly, because fuck it, he has a good feeling about this, he laces his own fingers between Nick’s, about double the length of his own. Nick smiles, buries it though, and squeezes Louis hand for a few seconds before pulling away and taking a sip of his coffee.

Louis counts it as a win.

 ******

The day after is Monday. Louis is considering having a wank when the front door bursts open.

“Why are you home?” he asks grumpily as Harry comes inside, phone in hand. Harry flicks his eyes up, grins as he sees Louis sitting there. 

“We need to talk,” he says, all earnest eyes as he takes his stupid amount of layers off and walks over to the couch.

“You breaking up with me, darling?” Louis gasps, and Harry just slaps him on the back of the head as he comes round the back of the couch.

“No, you moron, although keep it up and I might do,” he says, “no, but seriously. Nick told me.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Oh,” and then, “wait. Told you what.”

Harry positively _beams_ in his direction, which only makes Louis more nervous. 

“You know,” he says, nudging Louis as he curls up in his lap, he seems tired, “about the two of you.”

Louis furrows his brow. “But…but you knew that. You knew we’ve been…” he searches for the right word, “…well, fucking,” he settles on. “You knew that. We talk about it with some regularity, Styles, keep up.” 

Harry waves him off, takes a handful of chips from Louis’ bowl.

“Not _that_ ,” he says exasperatedly, but not yet exasperated enough to sit up, “about yesterday. You got _coffee_ together.”

“Oh,” Louis says, “yeah, we did. He texted me that morning, asked if I wanted to. Why?”

Harry bites his lip and sits up like a proud mother; Louis thinks he looks like he’s about to cry.

“And?”

“And _what?_ ” Louis asks, exasperated, “you’re being very fucking strange, d’you know that?”

“ _And_ what was it like?” Harry asks, equally as impatient.

Louis, oddly, feels himself go all shy at the question. Which isn’t something that happens to him all too often; he’s not sure he likes it.

“Was nice,” he murmurs, picking at a loose thread on his shirt, “yeah. It was really nice.” 

Harry all but has a fucking heart attack, jumps on him and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

“This is so fucking perfect,” he says, “you like him and he likes you and _Lou_ , oh my God, you have to tell him.”

Louis snorts. “He took a vague interest in shagging me when he’s drunk, I’m not sure that counts,” he says dryly.

“ _Lou!”_ he says, throwing a cushion at Louis’ chest, “he asked you _for coffee_. He…” he gestures wildly; Louis is slightly alarmed, “he doesn’t _do that._ Ever. He goes around and pretends he’s too cool to invite people anywhere, turns up where he wants. But he asked you _for coffee._ ” 

Louis stares at him for a long time, all bright and earnest. “Assuming you’re right,” he says, “which, you know. But assuming you are, you have no proof that I feel the same.”

At the look on Harry’s face, he regrets saying that almost immediately. Harry laughs and lies back down, looks up at Louis with a far too smug grin on his face. 

“Wrong,” he says, “wrong, wrong, wrong. You held his _ha-and_ , Lou,” he sing-songs gleefully, “he told me you held his _haaaand._ ”

Louis is going to kill them both.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, turning and pressing his face into the couch. Harry laughs delightedly, sits up and smacks a kiss to his forehead.

“Seriously, though,” he says, “you should go for it. He’s home tomorrow, and you do nothing all day.”

“I’m an _artist,_ ” Louis protests, “I sit here being tortured and I _create—“_

“Shut up and stop avoiding what I’m saying,” Harry reprimands, and, well, “seriously. You should do it.”

Louis just looks at him, a little doubtful. These things haven’t gone so well for him in the past, and they both know that. 

“Hey,” Harry says gently, “I’ll cook you dinner if you do it.”

Louis knows that in the grand scheme of things, Harry will probably cook him dinner anyway. But he wants to say yes. He really does.

“Got yourself a deal, Styles,” he says, and Harry looks like he’s just seen the archangel Gabriel.

******

Louis thinks his heart might just hammer out of his chest as he stands outside Nick’s building. He flicks his eyes down to the messages from earlier to make sure he’s got the right place, can’t help but smile. 

_Hey. What’s your address?_

_Very forward of you, Tomlinson._

_Just tell me._

_2/8 Argyle St, just near King’s Cross. Why? Booty call?_

Louis hadn’t responded to that, and is now, some hours later, most definitely outside the right place. He presses the little ‘2’ bell, and Nick buzzes him up without a word.

He climbs the stairs to the first floor and arrives just outside Nick’s apartment just as Nick opens the door. They blink at each other for a moment.

“That’s not very secure,” Louis blurts out, “could’ve been a murderer.” 

Nick shrugs. “Yeah, but, like. Could’ve been a guy with a great arse. So.”

Louis smiles, and Nick seems to remember himself, pulls the door back further so Louis can come inside. It’s a nice apartment, all sleek and minimalist and arty. Louis lets out a long whistle and Nick just snorts, shakes his head. 

“Drink?” he asks, “Tea, or whatever?”

“No,” Louis says, because he might throw up if he consumes anything right now, “no, I’m good." 

“Okay,” Nick says. He pads over to the couch, gestures to the one adjacent to it for Louis to sit on. They look at each other for a few moments; Louis loves his eyes in the daylight.

“Um,” Nick says, “not that I don’t like the company. But, um, what’s this about?”

Right. Talking. Louis can do that.

“Oh,” Louis says, “yeah, sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay, so, like. I’m just gonna say this. And then. You know. You can…”

“…Respond?” Nick finishes with a smile, “yeah, got it. That’s how conversation tends to go. What’s this about, anyway?”

Okay. Louis is going to do this, apparently.

“Well. Okay, you know how we, like, hang out a bit, right, and like, do, whatever. In laundries and kitchens and wherever else we see fit.”

Nick smiles, but it’s a little guarded. Louis ignores it. “Yeah,” he says, “hasn’t slipped my mind.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, “okay. Well, I like that, you know, it’s fun, and we have a good time, and whatever. But. Umm. I think, you know, that I maybe want more than that? I don’t know it’s like, after we got coffee on Sunday I was just thinking about it, you know, and that time Harry said we’re oddly similar, and it just. Made sense to me, or whatever. And I think you’re great,” he says with a smile he can’t quite contain, “really great. I’m never, ever bored when I’m with you. Which is kind of a big deal. It’s amazing. So. So, that’s it, really.”

Louis lets himself look at Nick’s face after that, and he all but blanches. He doesn’t like what he sees. Nick swallows, hard, and Louis thinks _please, please no, not this time._

“You, um,” he says, “can like. Respond, now.” 

Nick bites at his thumbnail, brow furrowing, and _no no no no no_ , Louis doesn’t want this. He feels his head go preemptively blank. 

“Louis,” he says quietly, desperately quiet, “I…I don’t know what to say.”

“You could try, _hey, Lou, you’re not half bad either_ ,” Louis says jokingly, but he doesn’t think Nick buys it.

“You’re _not_ half bad,” Nick says, and his tone is all sad reassurance and delicate rejection and Louis can’t do this, “but Louis. I can’t.” 

Louis swallows. “What about…what about Sunday?” he asks softly. He clenches his hand automatically, can still feel Nick’s there. Nick closes his eyes. 

“That was a mistake,” he murmurs, “I shouldn’t’ve done that. I…I’m sorry. I led you on, and I’m sorry.” His eyes look hurt, wounded, like he’s in pain. Louis wants to die.

“Lou,” he says quietly, “Lou, I’m sorr—”

“No. No, it’s okay,” he says, “I’m just gonna go.” 

And Louis doesn’t hear anything else, doesn’t need to, because the only thing going through his mind is _get the fuck out before you cry._

**                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

It’s dark when Louis gets in. And it’s not that he needs anyone there, he’s a big boy. He can deal with this by himself. It just…it would’ve been nice, or something, for Harry to be there. For anyone, really, to be there, but especially Harry.

He sighs, takes his coat off and runs a hand through his hair; kicks his shoes off. One goes flying into the wall and for a moment he gets an overwhelming desire to kick it as hard as he fucking can down the hall, but it all but disappears in a matter of seconds. He’s not even angry, not really. He’s just really, really sad, and that sits with him more than he’d like it to; heavier.

He takes a breath, tries to centre himself. But his head feels like it’s spinning out and it’s fucking _freezing_ in the apartment and, as he rounds the corner into the lounge, he just wishes someone was there. Wishes a light was on and someone was there to give him a hug. 

He doesn’t bother turning the heating on, doesn’t even flick the lights. He just grabs the packet of cigarettes he never finished all those months ago and goes outside, sits on the table and looks out over the bits of the city he can see from the balcony. He doesn’t think, not really. There’s nothing to think about, it’s done, Nick’s done, it’s all done. Tied up with a nice little ribbon and a big _fuck you_ and it doesn’t matter, anymore. It’s lonely and sad and heavy and ugly but it’s done. He thinks about going to bed, or taking a shower. Watching a movie, maybe. He never likes to try and write when he’s like this, because it’s always so horrific when he wakes up the next morning and reads it back. He doesn’t want to do anything. He doesn’t want to feel anything, anymore, he’s feels so lost and little and he just. He doesn’t know. 

“Lou?” 

He wheels around, just about has a heart attack at the small voice behind him. Harry stands there, biting his lip and hovering in the door.

“You scared me half to death,” Louis says, and even he can hear how distant he sounds, choked up and distinctively not like himself.

“Sorry,” Harry says quietly. He looks unsure, as though he doesn’t know what to do. But he can tell, is the thing, of course he can. Louis can see the thoughts in his head, the words he’s artfully trying to dodge around. “I…you’re here,” he settles on.

“Yeah,” Louis says. The wind picks up, seems to hold their words together. “Yeah, I’m here. Looks like you’re stuck with me for a bit longer, Haz.”

Harry seems to take that as permission to let all the pretence and weirdness drop. He slides the door shut and walks over to the table, hops up next to Louis and pulls him in tight, wraps those oddly big hands around him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says into Louis’ ear, “I’m so sorry, babe.”

“Me too,” Louis says, and he’s not totally surprised to find he’s crying for the first time all night into Harry’s shoulder, voice wobbling. He sits up, presses his palms to his eyes. “Sorry,” he says absently, “I didn’t want to. You know. Do all this.”

Harry just smiles, butts Louis’ temple gently with his forehead. “It’s okay, Lou,” he says, “you’re allowed, you know. You’re my best mate. I’m not gonna run for the hills.”

Louis laughs a little through his tears, and Harry gently takes the cigarette from his hand, leaves it to burn out in the ashtray.

“I thought it was gonna be different this time,” Louis says quietly, staring out over the balcony, “Like. It felt different.” 

“To what?”

Louis smiles ruefully at that, thumbs at a tear on his cheek. “I don’t know. To every other time. To Aiden back home. To Greg in college. I just…” he takes a deep breath, and brings his knees up to his chin, drops his head to rest on them, “I was so stupid, Haz.” 

“No,” he murmurs, putting an arm around Louis’ shoulder and drawing him closer, “you weren’t stupid. You’re never stupid.”

“I was, though. I…fuck,” he says, dropping his head into Harry’s shoulder miserably, “Jesus, you should’ve seen his face. I’m such an idiot.” He’s barely whispering now, tears small and silent. 

“Did you mean it, though?” Harry asks, “you know, whatever you said to him? Did you mean it?”

Louis fiddles with the corner of Harry’s shirt, fingers winding around the material. “I think so,” he murmurs, “yeah.” 

“Well then you weren’t an idiot,” Harry says, resting his head in Louis’ hair, “you told the truth.”

“Yeah. But I…. _fuck,_ ” he sighs, “I just fucking do it every time. Every time. Fuck it up and say things too early and I just…I wanted this one to work. You know?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “I know babe. I’m sorry.”

Louis opens his mouth, then closes it again. He’s not sure he wants to say what’s on his tongue. He looks over at Harry, though, and he’s just looking at him so openly, brow a little furrowed like it always is when anyone he loves is upset and it calms Louis, or something. He opens his mouth again. 

“It’d just be really nice if someone said it back, once, you know?” Louis says quietly, so quiet that he thinks Harry might not hear it. But he feels a little pinch at his waist where Harry’s hand wraps around him, and it’s all the confirmation he needs.

“Love you, Lou,” he says with a wry little smile, and Louis can’t help but look over him and burst out laughing.

“You don’t count,” he says, voice a little raspy as he nestles his head back on Harry’s shoulder, “but love you too.”

**

The next day, Harry calls in sick at work and they get high in the lounge room, breaking what is quite literally the one rule of the building, _no smoking inside._

“There goes the bond,” Harry notes as he takes a drag of the joint, passing it over to Louis. Louis just shrugs, cups his hand round the end so it doesn’t get blown out by the draught. 

“I think this is probably just the icing on the cake, if we’re honest,” he says, “I mean. You know. We broke the dishwasher by putting sheets in there.”

“Well some _arsehole_ threw up on them the week our machine was broken. What was I meant to do?” Harry asks accusingly.

Louis just laughs a little, let’s the smoke fill him up before he exhales. It’s an argument they’ve had too many times to count, so he lets it drop.

“Thanks for staying with me, Haz,” he says with a smile, “you’re kind of a bit good, you know?”

“Cheers,” Harry says dryly, “don’t rush me down with affection.”

Louis bats his eyelashes playfully, cocks his head to the side like an overdramatic teenage girl. 

“You’re the _best_ friend a girl could ask for, Harry Styles,” he says, smiling wide and obnoxiously, “now let’s braid each other’s hair and talk about boys!”

Harry just scrunches his nose up and takes the joint back. 

On the second day, Louis feels worse about everything, and so Harry co-opts Zayn into spending the day sat on Louis’ bed.

“And they’ve sent me the purveyor of happiness himself,” Louis says, deadpan, as Zayn walks in, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Zayn grins at that, kicks his shoes off and motions for Louis to move over. “Harry made me,” he says, and before Louis can squawk out a response he hops into bed and plants a kiss on his cheek, “also I love you, you twat, so budge up and let’s listen to sad music and cry.” 

Louis narrows his eyes accusingly. “What’ve you got to cry about?” he asks, “did the pool of sexually ambiguous people you spend your whole life shagging dry up?” 

“No,” Zayn says miserably, looking appropriately tortured, “Perrie’s gone to Scotland for a few weeks and I didn’t tell her that I love her.” 

“Who the fuck is _Perrie?_ ” Louis asks, sitting up and taking interest. Zayn just raises his eyebrows. 

“I didn’t tell you about her?” Zayn asks, “oh. She’s amazing. She’s been here a couple of times, at your parties. Purple hair. Beautiful. Wears lots of jewellery.”

“You literally just described every single one of our friends,” Louis says, “but if she’s Scottish, yeah, I know the one.”

“Well she’s perfect,” Zayn says with a Heathcliff-on-the-moors-worthy sigh, “and lovely, and I didn’t tell her that before she left.”

“When’s she back?” Louis asks.

“Three weeks, Lou,” he says miserably, flicking through Louis’ iTunes, no doubt looking for that self indulgent RnB that he likes.

“Right,” Louis says slowly, “and she is in _Scotland_ , yeah? Not, like. Uganda, or some other tragically war torn nation.”

“Yeah, Scotland.”

“Okay. So can’t…can’t you just tell her when she gets back?”

Zayn blinks for a moment, looks between Louis and the laptop and back.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” he says, “but…well. Oh.” 

Louis snorts and snuggles into his side, butts his head against him. “I missed your particular brand of misanthropy, Malik, you know that?”

“Missed you too, Lou,” Zayn says, “now what do you say we watch a couple of discs of Breaking Bad and drink every time it’s perfect?”

And yeah, Louis thinks that sounds like a plan. 

Liam comes over on the third day and even though Louis’ lights are out and he desperately doesn’t want to see the world, he feels himself dragged out of bed by a body much stronger than his.

“Oi,” he croaks, “let me sleep, you fucker, I’ve just had my heart shat on.” 

“Same,” Liam says, and Louis can tell he’s been up late, no doubt trying to salvage his fucking crackpot relationship for the four hundredth time, “so get up. We’re going to the gym.”

“Liam, I’m not going to the gym,” he says, resolutely. Liam just looks at him disapprovingly.

“You got baked on day one, smashed on day two, and today you’re getting fit. C’mon,” he says, “ _up._ ” He starts rifling through Louis’ drawers, pulling out anything that’s not jeans that Louis could possibly wear to exercise.

“I’m not going, Li,” he says.

“Why?”

He searches for an excuse somewhere, anywhere, that isn’t his actual reason. “Sore…sore arm,” he says, touching his bicep vaguely. Liam doesn’t buy it.

“Seriously, why not?" 

Louis rolls his eyes, brushes a hand primly through his fringe. “I went and got a cut and colour last night after Zayn left,” he says, trying to retain some semblance of dignity as he looks at Liam in all his gym-savvy glory, “which, by the way, you’ve yet to comment on. But they blow dried it all nice and I don’t wanna ruin it.” He shoots Liam a reproachful glare. “Happy?”

“No, Lou, I’m pretty appalled,” Liam says, throwing him a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt, “but I love you, so we’ll overlook it. Hurry up, we’re going,” he says, and before he leaves the room to let Louis change, he kisses him on the cheek and says, “and your hair looks bloody lovely, you muppet.”

Louis takes the compliment, and remembers it three hours later when he comes home half fucking _dead_ from the reps Liam made him do and books another hair appointment. He’s had a shit week. He deserves it.

On the fourth day, Louis is done with it. Niall offers to come over but Louis knows for a fact he’s on his last legs at this job he’s got, and he’s not going to be the one responsible for Harry being all puppy-dog eyes and horribly sad because his boyfriend’s unemployed. He turns down Niall’s offer and tells him to come for dinner one night, and also not to forget his and Harry’s anniversary in two weeks.

“Write it down, Horan,” he orders, “he gets shitty at _me_ for not remembering it, he’ll fucking lose it if you don’t.”

“I know it!” Niall cries defensively, “of course I do.”

“If you say so,” Louis says skeptically, “I’ll see you soon, yeah?” 

“Sure mate, see you,” Niall says, and just before Louis hangs up, “wait, Lou, did you say it was Wednesday or Thursday?”

Louis laughs, shakes his head despairingly. “Tuesday, you twat.”

So he sets about his day. He gets himself out of bed and has a shower and gets dressed, which all seem like infinitesimally small hurdles but they’re ones he’s liable to let fall by the wayside when he’s like this. It’s good for him, better than he usually is. He feels like he’s making an effort; even Harry notices. It’s good. It’s just not what he wants.

Because all the showers in the world, all the paragraphs he manages to write here and there, all the friends and enforced trips to the gym, they’re not a replacement. He misses Nick, so much. He misses sleeping with him every other weekend and he misses his particular brand of interesting; the way he kept Louis on his toes, stopped him from slipping into that general apathy he’s always on the edge of. He misses the small sense of satisfaction he got when he made him laugh properly, misses the intrigue and the oddity and the freshness that came with having Nick in his life.

But mostly, he misses thinking about him in a way that isn’t laced with sadness, or humiliation or regret or anger or bitterness.

So it’s a slow two weeks. It’s two weeks of trying his absolute fucking hardest to be okay, and failing quite dismally.

**

It’s an innocuous Thursday when Harry says it. They’re eating Frosted Flakes because they’re still children, and Louis is lamenting the fact that his royalties from _Far Away_ aren’t quite flowing in like they used to.

“I’m going to have to get a _job_ ,” he says in abject horror, without really meaning it, “like, a real person’s job. Like, you, Haz, I’m gonna have to—“ 

“I think you should talk to Nick.” 

Louis resists the temptation to snap his head up at the mention of Nick, keeps idly flicking through the paper. Government’s health package went through. There’s a new Tarantino film out. A flood has decimated west Pakistan. He swallows, hard.

“Hmm?” he asks, trying to sound vacant but failing as him voice catches on the end. He clears his throat, and Harry nudges his leg under the table. He has no choice but to look up, and he’s not sure what Harry can see in his eyes.

“You should talk to him.”

“Tried that, Styles, if you recall,” he says, standing up to clear their dishes. Admittedly, it’s not the greatest cover. He’s not cleared dishes since he was about seventeen. “Not the greatest outcome, if memory serves me correctly.” 

“Lou,” Harry says gently, “I talked to him. He’s upset. Let him explain himself.”

“He doesn’t need to explain himself,” Louis says shortly.

Harry stands, follows him to the kitchen and watches on as Louis _washes the dishes._  

“Yeah, he does. He’s an asshole, Lou. He…there’s other stuff going on with him, you know. Stuff he likes to cover up by being funny or just fucking mean. Let him tell you about it.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, he’s tortured and melancholy.” Harry nudges him in the leg again, but he’s still not buying it. “Oh come on, Haz, what, he’s got some underlying problems and insecurities I’m meant to decode? Have you, like, met him? As fucking if.”

“Right,” Harry drawls, “not like we know anyone else who acts like the most confident motherfucker in the world to avoid, you know, connecting meaningfully with other people.”

Louis glares at him reproachfully. Point taken, he supposes. Still.

“It’s not my place, Haz,” he settles on saying, “he obviously doesn’t want me knowing those things, or he would’ve told me. So. That’s it.” 

Harry shrugs, pulls a biscuit out of the tin on the shelf. “Well you should think about it,” he says, “also, Lou, might wanna use some detergent in there.” 

Louis glares again, for good measure. “I’m getting there,” he says.

**

Harry Styles is a cunning little arsehole when he wants to be. On the day after their little talk, Harry oh-so-nonchalantly invites Louis to come to the bar he works at for a drink that night.

“Why, so you can lock me and He-Who-Shall-Not-be-Named in a closet to talk about our feelings?” Louis asks, “nice try, babe, I’m not falling for it.” 

Harry glares and mutters something under his breath that Louis doesn’t quite catch, but he’s sure it’s not exactly favourable. 

Harry tries several more times over the next week. He invites Louis to gigs he wouldn’t usually ask him to, tries to get him to go to a party thrown by someone Louis’ not even heard of, and when he flat out asks Louis to come for coffee with him and Nick, Louis feels as though he’s maybe won.

So he should’ve known, because Harry is quite the manipulative thing when he wants to be, and unfortunately has a shortlist of Louis’ weaknesses on hand at all times. Number one – his penchant for staying indoors whenever possible, like, for example, Tuesday. 

It’s just past twelve on Tuesday afternoon and Louis’ settled down in front of an East Enders replay or some such shit with a cheese and avocado toastie and a cup of tea. He actually, for a change, wrote this morning. He read it back an hour later and didn’t completely hate himself, so. He’s celebrating. With tea and bread. He’s maybe pathetic.

Stock standard character A and her boyfriend have just started hooking up when a key jangles in that eternally stiff lock.

“Haz,” he calls over a mouthful of sandwich as he turns to the door, “d’you get milk today, cos I used—oh.” 

Because standing somewhat awkwardly behind Harry, looking like he’d rather the floor swallow him whole, is Nick. 

Louis thinks he’s never come close to socking Harry in the face.

“Umm,” he says, trying to sound measured but failing when he realizes he’s in sweats and an old Killers shirt, “what’s he doing here?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “He is here,” he starts, “so you two can sort your shit out and stop acting like idiots. I’m locking the door, call me when you’re done,” he says, and with that, the door snaps shut behind him.

Nick and Louis, for what it’s worth, do stony awkwardness incredibly well.

“So,” Louis says, standing up and folding his arms, “is there a reason you let him drag you here?”

Nick looks tired, Louis thinks. He looks tired and a little more sad than usual. “Yeah,” Nick says, quietly, “yeah, I just…hi.” 

Louis snorts, shakes his head and grabs his keys. He doesn’t need to do this again. Nick can go fuck himself, and so can Harry. He’s not going to stand in his own flat being humiliated.

“Yeah, well, lucky for you Harry forgot to take my keys with him, so his little siege is cut short,” he says, grabbing them off the table and starting for the door, “have a nice day, Nick, I’m leaving.”

He does not expect what happens next, for the way Nick somewhat aggressively grabs his arm. Louis spins around, furious. 

“ _What?_ ” he spits, “what the fuck do you want?”

“Don’t go.” It’s all Nick says.

“Why not?”

“Because…” he trails off, a little desperately, and Louis just rolls his eyes and starts for the door again, but Nick starts talking. “Say it again,” he says.

“Say wha—“

“Say what you said the other week again.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Why, so you can turn me down and get a ten point ego boost? Not a fucking chance, and you’re a prick for asking." 

“Please. Just. Say it again. Because I need to tell you why I said no properly.”

“ _You_ bloody well say it." 

He doesn’t mean to say that, he really, really doesn’t. And it almost – almost, Louis tells himself, not _does_ , just almost – hurts, how easily they fall back into this.

Nick sighs, and it strikes Louis how ridiculous this is. He seems to recognise that Louis isn’t going to put himself on the line again, though – Louis thinks Nick understands self-preservation better than most – so he bites his lip and runs a hand through his hair.

“No,” he says, and Louis feels himself flinch, “but, like, I’m gonna just keep talking for a bit and probably not stop, if that’s okay.”

Louis doesn’t confirm or deny. Nick just swallows, hard, and takes a deep breath.

“Okay. Okay, so,” he says, fingertips running through his hair and tossing it to the other side, “the other night, when, y’know, you came over, and, and said—“ he pauses, closes his eyes and sets his jaw and Louis can tell he’s pissed off, at himself, at all of it maybe. “Fuck it,” he says, “okay, fuck it.”

He takes a breath and looks right at Louis. And it’s interesting, Louis thinks, it almost takes his breath away, because he feels like he’s looking at _Nick_ for the first time.

“You’re like…you’re like one of the best people I’ve ever met,” he says, all in one breath, and Louis isn’t sure what he’s been expecting but it’s not that. He blinks, feels himself blush a little, and Nick smiles softly. “See? Even just now, when I’m in the middle of giving one of the worst speeches of all time.” 

“I’d say it’s more the beginning,” Louis finds himself saying, because just for a moment, he feels all that fondness he’s got bottled up for Nick come flooding back, “but do go on.”

Nick smiles, snorts a laugh at the ground before looking back at Louis.

“You’re funny and you have interesting stories and you’re so…” he searches through the words, and usually peoples’ inability to come to terms with their own vocabulary annoys Louis, but today it makes him smile, “you’re so full of so much good, you know? You have all these people around you who’d jump into fire for you. Everyone’s focus is on you, and that’s just so fucking amazing to me. I’ve never met anyone like that before.” He seems to reel a little at the words falling out of his own mouth, and Louis is most certainly blushing now because Nick’s gushing like a damn oil well and he’s hitting all those spots that Louis doesn’t like to think about too often.

“And when I said you were sweet, that night at Harry’s gig, I wasn’t lying,” he says, “you are, even if you have most of the world convinced you’re a cynical, world weary prick.” 

Louis blinks up at him. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Also,” Nick says tone lighter, smirking, “that’s not so bad either.” He gestures obscenely at Louis’ crotch, and Louis just looks at him like he’s suggested they go and shag in the middle of Green Park. 

“What a way to woo a boy, Grimshaw,” he says wryly, and then wishes he hadn’t, because Nick’s face all but clouds over.

“I’m not trying to, Lou,” he says quietly, and any of the eased tension comes right back, “don’t you…don’t you get what I’m saying?”

Louis looks blankly at him. “No,” he says, because he doesn’t.

Nick wrings his hands a little before flicking his hair back to the other side, all jitters and walls and nerves again.

“I can’t say yes,” he says, “and I can’t say it back. Because if I do then we’ll start…this, y’know, it’ll start and either you’ll realise you made a mistake or…well you won’t,” Nick rambles, “you won’t realise and then that’ll be a thousand times worse, because…Jesus, Louis, I won’t be good for you.”

Louis sets his jaw defiantly, swings a chair out from the dining table and sits down. His hands are shaking a little, so he crosses his arms. It dawns on him that Nick can probably smell the defense mechanism on him a mile off, but he doesn’t care.

“That’s bullshit,” he says, “and you know it.” 

Nick’s brow furrows, almost painfully, as he shakes his head. “It’s not,” he says quietly, “I’m pretty fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Louis says quietly, “well, join the fucking club." 

And Nick – fucking _Nick,_ who Louis can never quite predict – laughs. He laughs like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard.

“Lou,” he says, and Louis feels the warmth go right through him at the nickname, “Lou, look at you. You…you were published at twenty-four. You were _famous_ at twenty-four, and not for going on a fucking talent show and not for, I dunno, being splashed on the front of the Mail one day, but like, proper famous. Acclaimed, even,” he says dryly, and _boy_ does Louis know that too well, the inability to stay serious for too long just in case something important slips out. “You’ve achieved, like, everything you wanted. You have people around you who’ll be here till the day you die, nice flat, call your parents every week. You’ve got it all worked out, you know. I don’t." 

It’s Louis’ turn to laugh.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidd—“

“No, Lou, wait. Like, I _really_ don’t. Do you know what I wanted, when I was twenty-four?” he asks, without waiting for a response, “I wanted to be on the radio. Like, proper radio. But I spent every other night getting shitfaced and doing pills in the fucking garage of some asshole I met at a club or another,” he says, “and fucking whoever’d have me. I dropped out of uni. I’ve done nothing, Louis, I’m here now and I’ve done nothing, and then you walk in and you…” he cuts himself off, smiles, small but bursting with exactly what Louis feels in his head whenever he thinks of Nick, “you’ve done it all. You’ve done what you’ve wanted to do, y’know, and that’s…that’s a lot, for someone like me.”

“I’ve not fucking _done it a—“_

“And I’ve never had a group of friends like you do, you know why? Because I’m too fucked up to let anyone in,” he says, and his voice is a little more frantic and wobbly than usual, Louis can sense a change, an agitation, now, “except you, for some reason. And I never call my parents, you know why? Cos I haven’t seen them since I was sixteen and I ran away.”

“Nick—“ Louis says, but Nick wheels around from where he’s started pacing and looks right at him with such intensity burning in his eyes that it shuts Louis right up.

“And see, little things, like that,” he says, “why do you call me Nick? No one calls me that. And it makes you so fucking _different_ and _interesting_ and I can’t…don’t you get it, Louis? I can’t. I can’t _do_ that to you. I can’t let you start something that you’ll be too good of a person to end, even though you’ll want to. I don’t wanna make you miserable, or like me, but I will. I fucked you over enough as it is, and I’m so, so sorry for that. Believe me, I am. So I can’t say it back, even though I want to, because for once in my goddamned life I’m not going to be a selfish bastard.”

He seems, Louis thinks, to be done. They stare at each other for a long moment, and a look starts to cross Nick’s face as though he can’t quite believed he uttered all those words. Louis quirks a small smile.

“Finished?” he asks, and Nick snorts, drops his eyes to the ground.

“I do believe I am, yes,” he says, voice low and even again, and Louis feels himself begin to breathe a little easier.

“Don’t you think it scares the shit out of me?”

He asks it blankly enough to make Nick look at him, confused. “Wha—“

“All that stuff? Don’t you think it scares the everloving _shit_ out of me, that I’ve done nothing worthwhile since I was twenty-four? That I’ve fucking peaked and I’ve got sixty-odd years to live knowing that?”

Nick blinks and opens his mouth to argue, but it’s Louis’ turn now.

“And that some of the best people in the world choose, inexplicably, to count me among their closest even though all I do is say dickish things to them and drink their vodka and lie all uninspired on their couches?” he asks, “do you think that I’m not scared out of my _mind_ that one day they’ll realise I’m not worth their time and move on?” 

Nick looks at him like he’s slightly mad. 

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“Of course it is,” he says, “Thinking you’re gonna fuck me up because your parents are apparently assholes doesn’t make a lot of fucking sense either, you know,” he points out, “but it doesn’t make it any less real. And that’s fine. But it’s not an excuse to run screaming from any person who looks at you sideways.”

“Or bursts into my flat and says what I’m pretty sure was a Shakespearean sonnet, or something,” Nick says quietly.

Louis presses his lips together, looks at the ground. “Or that, I suppose,” he concedes quietly. He would leave the rest of this conversation to Nick, but he’s not sure where it’d go. “I don’t know where you got the idea that I need some fucking perfect boy with Mummy and Daddy living in a country house in Windsor and an English degree from Oxford to keep me sane,” he says, “but I’m a fucking grown up, Nick, I can take care of myself, and I don’t need that.”

Nick hums a little laugh, and his eyes look exactly like Louis’, totally gone for the person across from him.

“I don’t want that, Nick. I just…” he rolls his eyes, because is he _really_ about to say this, “I just want you.”

And Louis thinks he’ll remember the next few seconds for the rest of his life; sitting on the creaky chair from the dining table, legs and arms crossed unimpressedly but really wanting to scream _if you run away I don’t think I’ll get up again_ , Nick standing opposite him, nothing in front of him to hide the vulnerability in his eyes.

And then Nick opens his mouth.

“Okay,” he says, quietly. Nothing follows it.

“Okay what?" 

Nick rolls his eyes, but to no avail; the smile on his face drowns it out. “ _Okay_ as in, _okay, you twat, I just want you too._ ”

And with that, Nick walks over to the chair, tugs Louis up by the wrist and pushes him gently against the wall, fists a hand in the front of his shirt with the other one balancing him against the wall and kisses him gently. It’s not like his other kisses; drunk and hot and messy, it’s sweet, slow, like he wants to remember it in the morning.

Louis, for what it’s worth, does too.


End file.
